


Soul

by standbygo



Series: NaNoWriMo 2013 One Word Prompt Challenge [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 10:43:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a case goes wrong, Sherlock and John contemplate the difference between life and death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soul

**Author's Note:**

> NaNoWriMo One Word Prompt Challenge: "Soul", from Ann.

The moment the cab slowed at the kerb – not even stopped completely – Sherlock threw himself out and ran into the derelict building. John was not far behind, throwing money at the cabbie, but Sherlock took the stairs three at a time with his long legs and soon far outpaced him.

“Hurry John!” he shouted.

“What… what floor?” John panted.

“Tenth!”  

Impatience and self-recrimination fueled Sherlock’s muscles and increased his pace. His brain repeated a curse with every footfall – ‘Late, late, late’, and ‘stupid, stupid, stupid’. Hadn’t seen the key, hadn’t seen the links between the clues until ten minutes ago, and the countdown to find the kidnap victim had wound down too close for Sherlock’s taste.  He ran faster, as if it could turn back the time he had already lost.

He burst into the tenth floor’s hallway, calculated which entrance was the one he wanted, and was able to break the door’s rotten wood with one kick.

He could see the huddled figure of the woman, still in the blue evening gown she had been kidnapped in, lying on the filthy floor. He ran to her and pulled her to lay half on her back and half on his lap.

Alive. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief when he first saw her blink, then, with growing horror, observed how slow her blink was, how pale her skin, how cool. Her brown eyes focussed on him, saw him, blinked again – paused – blink – and – 

Sherlock stared at the woman’s face, at her eyes, at the chest that no longer rose but rather fell and shrank a bit and stopped.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, is she-” John clattered in the door. He reached past Sherlock and felt at her neck for a pulse. Sherlock knew, knew as if they were his own fingers, that John could feel nothing.

“She was breathing when I came in,” he said dully.

To his surprise, John shoved him aside unceremoniously, lays the woman flat on her back and tilts her head back. “Call 999, Sherlock, now, quick.” He pinched her nose and puffed into her mouth, then began chest compressions. 

He glanced at Sherlock, who was standing at the woman’s feet, staring still.

“NOW, Sherlock! It may not be too late!”

Sherlock, startled by John’s shout, pulls his mobile out, dials 999 and clicks ‘Talk’. He heard the dispatcher’s voice – aged 59 or 60, just drank some coffee, widower – 

“Tell them ambulance.”

“Ambulance,” Sherlock repeated automatically into the phone.

“Tell them, unresponsive female, aged twenty five, possible poisoning, no detectable pulse,”

“Unresponsive female, aged twenty five…”

+++

When they return to Baker Street, hours later, Sherlock immediately goes to the bedroom and puts on his pyjamas, and curls up on his side on the sofa. John comes in from the kitchen, sets a glass of whisky on the coffee table in front of Sherlock, and sits beside him, near his feet. Sherlock ignores the drink. John puts his hand on Sherlock’s hip, takes a sip of his own whisky. Waits.

Much, much later, Sherlock speaks.

“You’re a good doctor, John.”

“Thank you,” John replies.

“But I knew you couldn’t bring her back.”

John is silent for a time. “No,” he says at last. “I kind of knew that too, but I had to try.”

After another long silence, Sherlock tries to funnel his swirling thoughts into words. 

“I saw her-” and then stopped, and tried again. “She was breathing – she looked at me-” Stop. His fists clench and twitch with tension. “God damn it, John, I see dead bodies all the time!”

“It’s different,” John says softly, “to _see_ them go.”

Sherlock sighs, letting every ounce of breath out of his lungs. John rubs his hip gently.

“When I was ten or so,” John says, “Mum and Harry and me were watching some variety show on telly. It was being broadcast live, special event and all. This magician came on – actually, he was a comedian, he did this magic act where nothing happened right. I remember Mum being really excited he was on the show, she liked him, thought he was terribly funny. At the time, I couldn’t figure out what was so funny about making mistakes.

“Anyway, he had just started his act and he’d just put this big shiny robe on, and he suddenly just sat down. And the audience laughed, thinking it was part of the act, him messing up. And then he fell back, and the screen went blank and they went to an advert. Found out the next day he’d had a massive heart attack, right on live television. Dead. And no one knew.

“That was the first time I saw someone die. I remember his face when he was sitting down, just before he fell back. Something changed about his face. It’s not anything I can define from a medical standpoint. Just something – went away. I think it was then I started thinking about becoming a doctor. Wondering if someone had realized sooner, or did something sooner, he might have lived. And maybe I could do that.”

“But sometimes you can’t,” Sherlock says.

“No,” John says quietly. “Sometimes I can’t.”

Sherlock is quiet for a while, then sits up, turns, and lays his head in John’s lap. John’s fingers stroke through his hair. 

“Can I ask you something?” John says. “But you don’t have to answer,” he adds.

“When you say it like that, it usually means I don’t have to but you’d prefer it if I did.”

John hums a small smile. “You saw Jeff Hope die. You said he didn’t die right away, he told you about Moriarty and then died. How is this different?”

“It was different,” Sherlock says. “I observed him, I was intent on getting information before he died. I didn’t _see_.” Sherlock pauses for a moment. “It’s your fault, you know.”

“Mine?” 

Sherlock buries his face into John’s belly. “You’re a terrible influence on me, John Watson. This bloody caring lark.” He breathes in, categorizing the smells surrounding him. “John, when you were shot…”

“I coded, yes,” John says. “I lost a hell of a lot of blood, and I coded for about ninety seconds, apparently.”

Sherlock’s fingers twist in John’s jumper. 

John half laughs, not at Sherlock, not at the conversation. “And no, I didn’t see a white light, or my loved ones. I just remember pain, and then no pain, then pain again.”

The thought of John on a surgical table in Afghanistan, blood everywhere, his heart struggling to find its rhythm again, makes Sherlock’s own heart, so unaccustomed to the vulnerability of love, beat faster. 

 John puts down his drink, unfinished, and pulls Sherlock to his feet. He guides him down the hall to their room, and lies down on the bed, pulling Sherlock after him and on top of him, shifting him so Sherlock’s head rests on John’s chest. Then he snakes his arm across Sherlock’s back, reaches his fingers up to his neck.

Sherlock listens to John’s strong heart thudding, and John feels the corresponding song of Sherlock’s pulse in his neck. They stay like that until their pulses slow, and they sleep.

  _End_  


**Author's Note:**

> The story about the magician/comedian is true: Tommy Cooper died of a massive heart attack on live TV in 1984. I've seen the clip - I didn't sleep for a week after - be warned.


End file.
